Tower of the Dead: A Story in Three Parts
by GOGHOTi
Summary: A tale of the first Abhorsen: the young man Cormac investigates reports of strange disappearances at Tower Dala. Armed with a hammer, a hunting knife, and a strange set of bells, little does he know his life is about to change.
1. Part 1: Blaspheme

**Disclaimer**: The Old Kingdom, its territories, Yrael, the Charter, and the Abhorsen belong to Garth Nix.

* * *

Already the world was moving on. By decree of the King, the old ways were slowly being dissolved. The old forts, guard towers, the murns, the Ratterlin slums that still remained―all were fading into the gathering twilight of the people's memory. No one had been named in the old styling for many years, and those old enough were clamoring to change. Cormac could only pity the royal scribes; people seemed to be flooding toward Belisaere every day, eager to have their names changed on the records. Just the other day he had passed a caravan, an entire village that had upped and embarked on the difficult journey to the capital. The man at the head, one Uric abh Vendeth, spoke of the surname he wished to procure for his family.

"You should hurry, son," he advised as they parted ways. The man's walking stiff was gnarled and bent, much like the man himself, and Cormac felt a flash of trepidation. The walking stick was already dead. Uric would be, too, very soon. As it were, Cormac had no intention of following the temporary exodus to the capital. It wouldn't be practical, not when there were unbound creatures afoot. But Cormac knew it would impolitic not to humor an old man who was so obviously passionate about this.

"To Belisaere?" Cormac ventured. He pretended to consider Uric's advice, running a large, calloused hand through his hair and adopting a faraway look. Finally, he shrugged, as though giving in. "I have business in Nunwwick," he said apologetically, but swiftly added, "My cousin and I plan on going to Belisaere after the rainy season ends."

Uric frowned in a fatherly fashion, far too invested in business that didn't concern him. That was the way of all men such as Uric, Cormac supposed. There came a time when folk became too old to distinguish between their own children and complete strangers, but that sort of misplaced care never bothered Cormac. "There is no way you can make it to city before then? I am not sure if the King has allowed for multiple surnames to be taken." Uric paused to peer owlishly at something over Cormac's shoulder. Reflexively, Cormac tensed, before following the old man's gaze. It was only his "cousin," approaching with a very sour look on his face. Unperturbed, Uric barreled on. "At worst, you may be forced to take on your village name. What did you say you were registered under?"

Cormac smiled at Uric, feeling the inexorable pull of the hunt and open road. "abh Orsen. They call me abh Orsen."

With that, the two men finally parted ways. Uric, stooped with too much worry, led his people northwest to Belisaere and a new start on life, however superficial.

Cormac, unconcerned and carefree, continued with his fellow to the northeast. The two cut striking figures, tall and sun-filled, trotting opposite the torrent of pilgrims toward the swampy peninsula. Cormac had been "asked" to investigate unnatural occurrences at Tower Dala, which currently made up the southern portion of Belisaere's harbor guard. Tower Iyls, situated on the northern peninsula, as well as Tower Dala were undergoing the same upheavals of change as the rest of the kingdom. No longer would each Tower being fitted with a full garrisons of guards and a fleet of swift sea-skiffs. The King, acting on advice of the Queen, had decided in his infinite wisdom that a great chain net would better protect the capital city. And so it would be.

In theory. There had been talk of mutiny among the guards of Tower Dala, although for reasons very different than being located to a new fort. It was there that Cormac became involved. A friend of his mother had asked for her help, but she elected to send Cormac instead. By all accounts he looked the part of roving hero―he had the strapping figure, the flashing and bright eyes, the practiced step of an experienced fighter. But his mind was elsewhere: he dreamed of forges, cold mountain air, a vivacious and viciously beautiful red-haired girl. Cormac fingered the bandolier fastened across his chest, the only indication he was no mere traveler. The more practical of his weapons were hidden by his traveling cloak: he had hooked his hammer on his belt, where it currently hit the back of his leg with each step; his hunting knife lay bare and cool atop his thigh; a shepherd's sling he had tied around his upper arm, disguising it as simple ornamentation. Those were tools he was familiar with, but the bells frightened him. They entered his life as a mere commission, then a liability, and finally a boon, a gift that had been given craftily and taken warily.

Cormac's train of thought was crudely interrupted by a smack to the back of his head. "Touch those bells one more time…" his "cousin" warned.

"Ow! What was that for?" Cormac stopped in his tracks, rubbing the spot where his companion had hit him.

The other man shot him a superior look, one that straddled the line between smug and condescending, a distinction that Cormac hadn't known existed before they began traveling together. It was still a shock to Cormac that people believed his lie that the two were cousins. Certainly they acted as such, with an easy, aggressive rapport. But they looked nothing like each other: where Cormac was dark-haired and dark-eyed, Yrael's hair was the rakish blonde of dirty water, and his eyes were blue like a shallow and quick mountain stream. Cormac carried himself with the affability of a lolled-tongue hound, all wagging tail and barely-contained energy. Yrael was too still, too relaxed to be truly believable, or even human.

"What?" Cormac repeated, the hurt working its way into his tone. It was not as though he was truly in pain, but also like a dog he had the habit of being overly-dejected when hit. Without him really trying, his long face assumed a look of the utmost suffering as his thin mouth and brows shifted in an almost comical manner. Instead of answering, Yrael walked on in pointed ignorance, leaving Cormac to huff after him. "What?"

"I'm sorry 'cousin,' I didn't catch that," mocked Yrael, placing melodramatic emphasis on the lie. He didn't stop walking, instead quickening his pace so that Cormac was relegated to staring at the back of his head.

Cormac sighed, a long-suffering sound that he was no stranger to making. Over the course of their "adventures" together, he had learned perhaps only one thing about Yrael―the man could be damn annoying when he so chose. "I'm sorry," he said, with much more tolerance than was due. "I just didn't think people would believe you're my _uncle_."

Now it was Yrael's turn to stop cold, allowing Cormac to overtake him. Cormac was taller, and had significantly longer legs. He was a good distance away before Yrael's temper finally snapped. "Mac!" Yrael shouted threateningly, and broke into a run. Cormac grinned over his shoulder, and began running as well.

However unbelievable, it was true. Yrael was the half-brother to Astarael, Lady of the Mountain, sister of the Queen, and mother to Cormac. Astarael looked her age, a plainspoken and rough-hewn woman of nearly forty. Yrael was only two years younger than she, but looked no older than five-and-twenty. Cormac had long given up asking Yrael about the disparity between his age and his appearance―he chalked that one up to the man's ridiculous vanity. Yrael was a fairly recent fixture in Cormac's life, and so they never had the time to build up the relationship that an uncle typically built with his nephew. They had met as adults: Cormac an untested young man and Yrael at least looking the part, and so they treated each other as such. If anything, they were brothers―Yrael easily fell into the role of elder, and Cormac the role of younger. To label themselves as "cousins" almost felt like cheapening their relationship. Any mention of 'uncle' or 'nephew,' after everything they had gone through together, was more offensive than anything else.

Eventually Yrael caught up to Cormac, as he always did. A brief scuffle, a big toothy grin on the part of Cormac, a smirk for Yrael as he ruffled 'Mac's' hair―beyond their constant traveling, there wasn't much more to their lives than this. They were what they were: Cormac abh Orsen, blacksmith, hunter of unbound Free Magic creatures, servant of the Charter, and self-professed idiot; Yrael, bound to his sister's lineage, sharp, rakish, and rude. Friends. There were only a few lenses through which their lives could be colored. It was Cormac's way to never bother to look farther than what was directly in front of him. It was Yrael's to assume a façade and pretend all was well.

"What's the matter old man?" Cormac taunted, writhing free of Yrael's stranglehold. He hunched over, pretending to be Uric from the main road. "Is something bothering you, Uncle? Can I get you something for your back, Uncle? Shall I fetch something for you, Uncle?" Like an oversized young buck, he pranced around Yrael, who rocked back on his heels and watched Cormac in aggravated amusement.

"Hilarious," Yrael pronounced, finally cuffing Cormac around the ears in the time it took a normal person to blink. Cormac chuckled, rubbing the injured spots, and the two fell back into step towards Dala. When they first met, they never would have imagined they could laugh together like this, like now. Yrael had been brooding, belligerent, entirely reluctant (and that was an understatement). Cormac had been a nervous ball of untrained energy, entirely dependent on Yrael for survival on the hunt and on the road. Cormac supposed they had been brothers even then; as much as Yrael liked to say otherwise, Cormac knew he had always cared. And if Cormac was right about what had happened between Yrael and Astarael, perhaps Yrael was one of those unlucky few who cared too much. Then, Yrael had put forth a fiery wall of antagonism. Cormac liked to think he had changed since.

The two assumed the quick pace of soldiers on the march. They had left their horses at the last town, in the care of a toothless old ostler. The Sallows, as the twin peninsulas around Belisaere were called, were swampy and no place for horses. Tower Dala sat amidst the water-choked trees and nests of snakes, a rickety old building of cracked wood and black stone. Their boots squelched as they made their way through the saturated earth, their hands swatting away flies.

"Nice country here," said Cormac after they had been walking in silence for a while. He wasn't one for silence, Cormac, and felt that having midges in his mouth was preferable over dead air. The midges seemed to feel the same. He choked, spitting out a mouthful of the small flies, and almost ran headlong into a tree.

Yrael shot him a resentful, disbelieving look, but nevertheless took the bait. "Absolutely lovely," he muttered tersely, barely opening his mouth beyond a hairsbreadth. Cormac noted that somehow Yrael managed to avoid taking a mouthful of bugs, and then, in his observation, ran into a cluster of vines. He sputtered, consuming more than his fair share of leaves before finally freeing himself. Yrael's eyebrows lifted in a wearily amused expression―Cormac's special kind of grace was nothing new.

"Are we almost to the Tower?" Cormac asked, ducking and waving a spider web out from in front of his face. He wasn't sure, but were swamps supposed to have this many bugs?

Yrael rolled his eyes, lithely dodging a tree branch and stepping over a tree root at the same time. They both knew the map was in Cormac's pack (Yrael traveled "lightly," which Cormac came to learn actually meant "nothing.") but they also knew that Yrael had the uncanny ability to know exactly where he was at all times. "Almost," he asserted, and sure enough, as they cleared one final tangled root, Tower Dala rose above them like a god. The treetops, which had so recently obscured the fort, now adorned its base, and the thick fog that had shrouded it now curled around Tower Dala like a lover, its tendrils making their way into cracked and gaping windows.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" breathed Cormac, not noticing the swarm of midges that capitalized on his awe.

In reply, he received a derisive snort. "Yes, I have. And so have you. You're always like this. We could arrive at a hole in the ground and you'd probably be moved to tears." At that, Yrael pushed through a clump of ferns towards Dala, and disappeared into the fog.

"Some people appreciate a sense of wonder, you know," Cormac shot back, tripping over himself to catch up. "People might like you more if you weren't such an ass!"

Yrael made a dismissive motion with his hand, still striding forward. "That's the point, Mac."

Under Tower Dala's mournful and ever-watchful eye, the fog swallowed the two men up, leaving nothing but their disembodied voices to scare the crows and still, stagnant water.

***

They had exchanged words with the foreman and garrison captain only cursorily. The foreman, a short and fiery man with bristles for a moustache, gestured wildly at the tower, his cowed workers blinking dolefully up at Cormac and Yrael from their ragged tents. Mogget, he had introduced himself before launching into his tirade, hadn't had anything useful to say. He was more concerned with meeting his deadline than anything else, and those _things_ roaming the tower were putting him seriously behind schedule. Already the crew at Tower Iyls had installed the boom hook―they were still making modifications, and if Lord abh Orsen and his servant could please hurry do their job, than he could get back to his?

The captain had even less to say. He carried himself with a world-weary superiority, and seemed more interested in asking them if they, in their extensive travels, had ever visited the ruins of Aerymurn. He spoke at great length of how he was one of the survivors, and how shameful it was that he, a poor soul such as he, should be removed of his command in such a manner. Replaced by a winding post, could Lord abh Orsen believe it? And no, he had never seen the creatures in the Tower, only knew they had killed a dozen workers, and two of his men. But Aerymurn, Lord abh Orsen! Shame!

To be fair, Cormac had been more concerned with their mangling of his name. After they had excused themselves from the foreman and the captain and made a swift retreat into the tower, Cormac shot Yrael a tight-lipped look. "Lord abh Orsen? Have people truly forgotten?"

"It's in the old fashion, Mac, and an unpopular one at that. Honestly, your clinging to that name is just as bad as that captain's clinging to Aerymurn. He wasn't even there when it happened," Yrael said bitterly, slamming the door of the tower behind them with particular vitriol. He then kneaded his temples, as though their exchange with Mogget and the captain had been physically painful.

Cormac started. "And you were?"

Yrael said nothing, instead moving on to massage the bridge of his nose.

Shrugging, Cormac traced a Charter mark in the air. It glowed ochre, lighting up their immediate surroundings. "But still. 'Lord son of Orsen?' That's ridiculous. Either he calls me Lord or abh Orsen, not both." He took a tentative step deeper into the tower, the Charter mark pulsing above his head.

"Oh, poor Mac. Were those nasty people being mean to you? I'm sorry," Yrael said sarcastically, turning to bolt the door with a fallen rafter before following Cormac. "Don't get your trousers in a twist."

"You're just mad," Cormac began, shooting a grin as Yrael came up beside up, "because he called you my servant." He looked pointedly at Yrael's short hair, which was only a little longer than the close shear of a field laborer. Cormac's own hair, which had the messy habit of falling into his eyes (always clinging erratically around his ears and the nape of his neck in loose waves), marked him as someone who could afford the luxury.

Yrael huffed, taking the bait. "Technically I _am_ your servant."

Cormac unsuccessfully stifled a laugh. "I'll be sure to remember that, then. Remember, you said it, not I."

His companion rolled his eyes violently, and Cormac sensed that his temper was getting close to the surface again, which would be even more amusing. "Can we just do our jobs? Kill whatever is here, collect our reward, and drink it away? Is that too much to ask, or will I have to kill you, too?"

Cormac assumed a surprised look, but one exaggerated into full-blown mockery. "That's funny. I must have left Yrael back with the captain. I'm sorry Mogget, I'll be sure to do my job quickly, so you can do yours." He referred to the rotund foreman, who had been so insistent that they kill the creatures as soon as possible.

"Be careful," Yrael snarled, "or that nickname might stick."

Cormac waved his hand with grandiloquence. "You worry too much, Yrael. I can't see why anyone would seriously call you Mogget. What sort of name is that, anyway?"

"A horrible one," muttered Yrael.

They fell into silence as they picked their way through the tower. Strewn furniture was everywhere, and rusty-black stains seemed to shift and squirm on the walls. They both knew what it was, but Cormac found it easier to pretend someone had thrown cheap wine everywhere. The air inside the tower was dry and still, which struck Cormac as odd, considering how damp the swamps were. It was if they were in another world entirely, a never-ending labyrinth of ruination. And Tower Dala had only been abandoned a fortnight ago? It was as though decay had taken on a physical form, and swept bodily through.

"Something isn't right," said Yrael suddenly, as they came upon a winding staircase. He drew back, tensing up and hands curling so that they resembled claws.

"I'll say," replied Cormac, poking his head up into the stairwell, and emerging thoroughly dusty. "I hope this hasn't happened to my room. I've been away for well over a fortnight."

"No." Yrael emitted a veritable growl, reminding Cormac once again that his friend was not quite human. "Can't you feel it? It's as though this place has been abandoned for years. Centuries, even."

Uneasily, Cormac slid one finger over the banister, and balked when it came away coated with dust. The dust was thicker than he had thought; his finger hadn't even touched the actual banister. "It's like―"

"Death," finished Yrael, looking more puzzled than fearful. He narrowed his eyes, lips pursing in deep contemplation. He moved one hand so that it rested over his heart, as if he were feeling for something. "No, it couldn't be," Yrael muttered.

"Care to share?" Cormac stood in front of Yrael, stooping slightly so that he could look him in the eyes.

"She's isn't here," muttered Yrael, now running his hand through his hair in agitation, still not meeting Cormac's eyes.

"Who isn't here?"

"Ast―" began Yrael distractedly as he looked up, but caught himself before he could finish the name. He frowned as their eyes finally met, and Cormac caught a brief flicker of recognition in Yrael's eyes, as though he had seen someone else for a heartbeat. The look cleared, and Yrael swallowed loudly. "It doesn't matter. This is something else." Yrael pulled Cormac away from the stairwell, no easy feat considering the younger man was bigger. Yrael's fingers dug into Cormac's arm, threatening to stop the flow of blood.

"What's wrong with you?" Cormac pulled away and rubbed his arm. His expression was still easy, but his voice betrayed his true concern, as well as his growing fear.

"We have to leave," answered Yrael, making another grab at Cormac's arm, but Cormac pulled away again.

"What happened to killing this thing? Doing our job? Drinking our money? What's gotten into you, Yrael?"

"Nothing has gotten into me," hissed Yrael. "Cormac, you don't understand. You and I, we kill Free Magic creatures, unbound things. What is here, in the tower…" Yrael trailed off, his face abruptly changing from fierce agitation to a blankness that scared Cormac even more.

"What?" pressed Cormac, taking hold of Yrael's shoulders and shaking him. "What's here?"

He was answered by a soft, wet sound. It was a shuffling noise, a crawling keen, one that wormed its way up Cormac's back and sent shiver coursing through his body. He turned slowly, afraid of what he might see. Cormac, who was blindly brave enough not to cow in the face of Free Magic creatures bound and unbound, who had looked his own death square in the face more times than he cared to count, was afraid now. And he had good reason to be.

What was in the tower was far more disgusting than Cormac could ever imagine, far more frightening than he could ever imagine. A score or so of gray, fetid bodies were sloughing on the floor toward them, drawing themselves forward with limbs in various states of decay. A miasma of stench, a foul cloying smell that was reminiscent of corpses, that _was_ corpses clawed at Cormac's face, sending him reeling back into the stairwell. "Yrael!" he coughed, grabbing the collar of his companion, who was still staring blankly at the approaching horde. "Yrael! Move!" he cried.

Cormac bodily lifted Yrael up and into the stairwell, free-flowing fear giving him brute strength. With their prey now gone, the creatures let up a terrific wail, and as Cormac dragged Yrael up the stairs, he could see their bony limbs straggling up the stone close behind them. He quickened his pace, feeling his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he flew up the stairs, he caught a door in his peripheral vision, and, feeling the utmost desperation of cornered animal, through himself through it, battering the old thing down. He, followed by Yrael, who was still being dragged by his collar, crashed onto the second story landing of the tower, a white burst of dust clogging their throats and temporarily blinding them.

Even after that, Yrael did nothing but slump against a broken piece of furniture, a troubled expression still working slowly over its features. Cormac would have remarked on this, had he not been so terrified of the things in the stairwell. His stint as a battering ram had left him dazed, but still he struggled up and groped his way over back to the doorway, which yawned in open amusement at their plight. Magic had always been Yrael's strong point―Cormac tended to play the role of muscle, but he knew a few practical spells. But nothing he knew could have helped them now. His Charter light bobbed up the stairwell, the creatures thrashing in its wake. This cleared Cormac's mind, and he remembered, in a flash, a burst of magic that Yrael had used when they first started traveling.

His confidence strengthened by need, he hurriedly traced Charter marks onto the landing. Each mark glowed a fierce blue as they were drawn, and when the pattern was complete a blinding flash of light ripped through the air. Astonished, Cormac stumbled back, clasping his hands over his ears as a tremendous cracking sound followed. When his vision finally cleared and his ears stopped ringing, he ventured back to the stairwell and peered down.

The stairs had been smoothed over in a thick coat of slick, black ice. He could still hear the wailings of the creatures from the floor below, but they seemed to have been stalled, at least for a time. He stood up, leaning heavily against the door frame, and kept vigil for a moment, his mouth drawn into a half-grimace as he reflected.

Finally, Yrael stirred. Cormac felt the hairs on the back of his neck as Yrael stood up in his peripheral; he pretended not to look too questioning, or betray just how upset he was at his friend's inexplicable behavior. Yrael followed Cormac to the doorway. "You did this?" he asked, toeing the ice with caution.

Cormac wanted to take credit, but had never quite mastered the art of boasting. "I remembered you doing something similar," he answered. "Back in Lowwick? You turned the pass to ice." He shifted, standing back from the doorway to allow Yrael to survey his handiwork.

"Yes," began Yrael, anchoring himself with the doorway before peering around the corner of the stairs to see how far the ice reached. He interrupted himself with a low whistle of appreciation, and then turned back to Cormac. "But I hadn't used Charter magic then. Who taught you how to do this?"

Cormac chose that moment to wipe the sweat from his face, but was entirely unsuccessful in hiding his blush from Yrael. He blushed almost as red as the hair of a particular girl, an old traveling companion of theirs who had since parted ways with them. "Probably my mother," muttered Cormac, his face taking on the expression of someone who had been caught doing something particularly embarrassing.

"I don't think so," said Yrael cheery appraisal, and clapped Cormac on the back so heartily that it almost sent him careening down the icy slope.

"I didn't think you would," admitted Cormac, and the both of them turned to examine their new surroundings.

If anything, the second floor of Tower Dala was even worse than the first. Swarms of flies buzzed in dark corners, broken chairs and desks leaned at maddening angles, weapon racks winked with red patina. The walls were still splotched with blood, but now in vaguely human shapes.

Sighing, Yrael ventured forward into the ruins, picking his way over the debris. Cormac watched him go in silence; normally he knew better than to ask about Yrael's _odd_ behavior, but Yrael had never before made himself a liability in battle, not until now. "Yrael―" Cormac called, standing absolutely still in the gathering dark.

Yrael seemed to have been expecting this. "Mac, please," he began, stopping to not-quite look over his shoulder. "Now isn't the time."

Cormac closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and shaking his head in disbelief. For once he could not find it in himself to tolerate Yrael's constant avoidance. The stillness hung between them another presence in the room. Finally, Cormac snapped. "Then when is the time?" he shouted, punctuating his anger with a tenseness that ran throughout his entire body. "I don't care if this is something you can't, won't fight―I can handle myself well enough. There's a window, jump out of it if you have to. But if you know something, then―" he paused, restraining himself from cursing.

Yrael regarded the floor with a resigned sadness. Cormac recognized the face: he had seen it before, when they had first met as strangers and Yrael watched him with what Cormac now understood was empathetic suffering. The look had been there when Cormac had first invited him home, and Yrael watched his mother in the garden and somberly turned away. It had been present when Cormac made his first kill, when Cormac first spilled the blood of another man. It was the look of timeless and helpless realization, an ancient type of understanding that Cormac couldn't fathom, or even begin to bear. His anger faded, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"I deserve to know, Yrael," he finished. Fog rolled in through the broken window, blanketing their feet and shifting across their faces like shrouds.

Yrael's voice was hoarse, but it cut through the fog. "They aren't alive," he said, still not facing Cormac. "Those things in the stairwell," he began tentatively.

"What?" pressed Cormac, squinting to keep Yrael in sight as the fog cyclically swallowed them whole and spit them out.

"They're dead."

The revelation, that secret Yrael had found so terrible, sank slowly into Cormac's understanding. And then he laughed. "That's it? Yrael, we've faced worse! You're trying to tell me you're afraid of a bunch of dead things that forgot they've passed on? You almost had me worried!"

Yrael turned testily toward Cormac, reclaiming some of his old fire. "You idiot," he snarled, advancing on Cormac. "That isn't even the half of it―"

A renewed wailing interrupted him, this time coming from what sounded like their own floor. "Another staircase?" suggested Cormac, finally reaching for his hammer and hunting knife.

Yrael shook his head empathetically, eyes narrowed and ears pricked as he tried to listen for the source of the sound. "There's only one central staircase in the tower. There must be more of them on our level."

"What?" exclaimed Cormac, his face shifting into an expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise that Yrael would have normally laughed at.

Instead, Yrael ran toward a dark corner of the room, disappearing from view. Cormac, against his politer tendencies, let loose with a string of curses, and sprinted after Yrael. They almost collided with each other, Yrael carrying a dilapidated chest of drawers like a pillow, and Cormac running feckless and blind. Once he got his bearings again, Cormac did a double take.

"Barricading," said Yrael simply, and pushed his load up against a door that Cormac had not noticed before. The taller man nodded, and hurried off to help.

"Other doors―shouldn't we be worrying about those?" Cormac yelled, the thought occurring to him as he was halfway across the room with a heavy weapons rack, spears and swords still clattering on it.

"This is just the landing. One door only," grunted Yrael in reply, as the door began to rattle.

"My offer still stands, you know."

Yrael looked up from the door to shoot Cormac an annoyed look. "Not the time," he said testily.

"We can always jump out the window." Cormac was smiling despite himself, but nevertheless went to join Yrael at the door, throwing his full weight into keeping it shut.

"Not an option," was Yrael's reply, and Cormac didn't miss the smile.

* * *

**Author's Note**: This started out as a teensy little break from "Children of the Open Air," but grew into this three-part behemoth that you see right now. "Tower of the Dead" falls into the same continuum as "Children," but occurs about 20 or so years later. Because I wrote it with the "Children" continuity in mind, some elements of the story will be a bit mysterious, if that's the right word for it. This is not because I was lazy, or was too tangential (at least I hope!). Rather, whatever remains unclear will be explained by the time I complete "Children," if you care to know (which I hope you do! :3).

Basically, "Tower" is my take on the first Abhorsen. I'm a big fan of Gabriel from Sanaryelle's "Five Great Charters" (an awesome, epic fic that you should read and love forever!) and it inspired me to unearth my take on the first Abhorsen, who had been floating around in my head since I started planning for "Children." In the beginning, Cormac's name was Macsen, but I thought Macsen was just too cutesy when paired with Abhorsen---the -sen endings killed me, in the not good way. (I still wanted to have 'Mac' as his nickname, though.) I initially intended for him to be a lot more Byronic; now, well, he's just a big doof. I have a vague idea of his journeys (the events in "Tower" occur after a very long, ridiculous chain of events that detail just how Yrael and Cormac got past the point where they wanted to kill each other... At least, past the point where Yrael wanted to kill Cormac...) and I know what I want to do with him in the future. Anyway, on to the next chapter!

Until next time,  
Sam ;3


	2. Part 2: Asphodel

**Disclaimer**: Garth Nix owns everything Old Kingdom-related, barring the character of Cormac.

* * *

Two days now. Two days sitting in the fog and the dark and the gloom. Two days licking condensation from the bare window-sill for water, two days sitting miserably as the tower groaned and howled all around them. They were more than half-lying when they told each other they'd been through worse. Certainly, they'd had tougher physical situations, but the blatant despair of Tower Dala soaked their very bones. Cormac's emotions showed easily on his face―he alternated between chewing his lip, cringing, frowning with the corners of his mouth turned skyward. Yrael remained as still as ever, but his eyes were often glazed, he stared at his hands too resolutely, picked at his fingernails without realizing they often bled. Every scrap of furniture had gone to barricading the one door, and every ounce of their free energy was spent ensuring the ice in the stairwell held. Neither of them wanted to consider escaping from the tower; it could have been pride, it could have been a sense of duty, but the mocking and open window remained pointedly ignored. Yrael was simply glad he had the sense to bolt the door to the Tower―obviously it was the guards and workers who had awakened the dead, and it was only a matter of time before they would feel their hot, fetid breath on their ankles and calves. Cormac and Yrael listened for sounds of the crew below, but curiously no outside sounds penetrated the stone walls of Dala. Silence roared through the room and their heads. They were, quite literally, the only living things.

On the third day, Cormac finally turned to Yrael. "You never finished," he said with dream-like accusation, as though he couldn't quite remember what he was supposed to be upset about.

"What?" Yrael snapped, faculties as sharp as ever. "Don't tell me your brain has gone dead, too."

This rudeness seemed to shake Cormac back into clear-headedness. He peered at Yrael until the other man reflexively shied away from his utter aggravation and disapproval. "No! The other day, you were telling me something. 'It wasn't the half of it.' What did you mean?"

Yrael frowned in contemplation, his brows furrowing and forehead wrinkling as he tried to remember the conversation. Or at least, he looked as though he was trying to remember. Cormac had known him long enough to be able to recognize Yrael's tricks. Presently, Yrael was trying to decide if it would be more opportune to lie―Cormac caught the flash of craftiness in his eyes. Finally, Yrael blinked, coming to a decision. "Those bells," he began, reaching out to touch the largest pouch. The bandolier had remained strapped to Cormac's chest, but had been long forgotten when they entered the fort. Cormac started, remembering he still had it on. There were seven pouches, and within each were fastened a bell. At the top of his chest hung the smallest bell, and in front of his rib cage the cold metal of the largest bell sat in perfect stillness.

"These bells," Cormac repeated, beginning to unstrap the one Yrael had just touched. Yrael hissed and fumbled to shut the clasp.

"No! Don't touch them!"

Cormac snorted, but relented. "They were a gift, you know. It would be in poor form to ignore them."

Yrael's hand moved on to graze the second largest bell, and Cormac pretended to ignore how Yrael had tensed upon the contact, how dark his eyes grew with anger. "A gift I warned you not to accept," Yrael countered, skipping ahead to the smallest bell, which he patted with cursory appeasement.

Cormac chose to overlook the action and barreled on, his disapproval shifting into a narrow-eyed, open-mouthed smile. "I'm sorry, _Uncle_, but I wasn't about to refuse a gift because of your own damn pettiness."

Yrael's head snapped up, as did his hand. He gestured wildly, mere inches from Cormac's face, in raging abandon. "Petty? You think I was being petty?" Cormac recognized the steel in Yrael's eyes, and now it was he who shied away. "Cormac abh Orsen, I am bound to serve your mother and whether I like it or not I am bound to serve and protect you. I," (here he pointed forcefully to the open window, as if to suggest comparison with others), "keep my word in such matters. I would never, never lie about something like this." At 'this,' he prodded the sixth bell with such a force that Cormac's entire upper body hit the wall behind them with a resounding _thunk_!

Cormac felt the air leave him and clutched at his chest while he tried to get his breath back. When he finally recovered, he looked ruefully up at Yrael, who had been watching with that same steel-eyed look the entire time. "Excellent job protecting me, by the way." Cormac rubbed the back of his head gingerly, checking for blood. "Did I mention, 'ow'?"

But Yrael pressed on, obviously in a fervor. "You don't get it, do you?" He reached down, ripping the bandolier off of Cormac. The tall blond held it up to the gray light, which filtered in sickly beams from the window. He laughed, a harsh, dissonant sound, and threw it across the room, where it skittered dangerously close to the ice-covered stairs.

With a cry, Cormac leapt up, stumbling to recapture the bells. He leaned dangerously over the edge of the stairwell, but Yrael's frightened reaction of an outstretched hand went unseen. Instead, Cormac turned back to his companion, his entire body contracted in a wrathful arrogance that reminded Yrael far too much of another man, from nearly a lifetime ago. "What's gotten into you?" He straightened to his full height, which was taller even than Yrael. Cormac shadowed the doorway, and even the gnashing of the dead subsided as the entire tower fell into symphony with his barely-contained anger. He brandished the bandolier in front of him, and the bells swung almost sinisterly, straining to make a noise, but Cormac didn't notice it at all. "I've had it, Yrael, I really have. You always do this! Don't dangle your secrets; don't try to act superior―I've had it!" Angrily, he stretched the bandolier around his chest once more, fastening the ties so vigorously the sounds could be heard across the room. "If you really must act like such an ass all the time, well, find someone else who'll deal with you." The finality of his own demands quieted Cormac, and he slid down against the wall, coming to sit opposite Yrael with the entire room between them. He absorbed himself in the bells, slowly unfastening the clasp of the largest one. When he looked up, Yrael was sitting next to him.

Yrael took the bell tenderly, cradling it in his hands with a reverence Cormac hadn't known he was capable of. "If I'm right about this…" He trailed off, lost in the glossy metal and gentle curves of the instrument.

Cormac looked at the bell with a sense of loss. He still remembered the day he cast them, how the stranger Belgaer had stood over him, and, amidst the molten metal and searing heat, smiled. He remembered how the bells had been lost, how they had been recovered, and finally, how they had been given to him. He remembered how heavy they felt, how sorely they pulled at his shoulders, how they demanded he touch them, caress them at all times. Most of all, he remembered, felt even at this moment, how desperately he wanted, needed to ring them. He reached out to touch the bell as well.

"A bell of sorrow," said Yrael, wearing an expression that suggested he didn't fully comprehend what he was saying. Cormac moved to ring it, but before he could even blink, Yrael had swiftly sheathed the bell. "Not yet," he cautioned, and moved to sit in front of Cormac.

"What do you know?"

Yrael wore a mask of neutrality, the dying light obscuring him so that only half of him showed. The other side, shrouded in black, seemed to grow in the darkness until Cormac had the sense that Yrael was taking up the entire room. He would have been afraid of this swollen, monstrous Yrael had he not caught the other man's jaw clench and unclench in a restraining effort, connecting him, if only faintly, to reality. "They wanted this to happen," he began, his voice wavering as his anger temporarily overwhelmed his control. Before Cormac could ask who, Yrael raised his hand. "You know who―Saraneth, Ranna, _them_," he added with a icily perfect sort of ire. "The bells were no gift. They were yours from the beginning. You were always supposed to have them."

Cormac looked down just as the handles winked maliciously up at him, even though the sun had fully set and there was no more light in the tower. He shivered.

"You were supposed to come here, too. This was meant for you."

"The tower?"

Yrael shook his head vehemently, and in the darkness Cormac could just make out him closing his eyes, as though speaking was hurting him. "The dead," he corrected, and Cormac shivered again, violently this time. "The bells, the dead―this is what they wanted for you all along." He sighed, and the rustle of fabric and the new, muted quality of Yrael's voice lead Cormac to understand that his friend had buried his face in his hands. "I should have seen it. They always do this. Always." Yrael repeated the last word in despair, and fell silent. Cormac couldn't even hear him breath.

"Do what?" Cormac asked softly, previous anger forgotten.

"Their machinations. Never giving anyone _a choice_. The bells and the dead are your lot now, whether you like it or not."

Cormac swallowed, and rested his hand on the largest bell once more. When his hand swooped down for them, the other bells seemed to clamor for his touch, but not the largest one. It sat passively, and when he touched it an icy sensation trickled from the bell to his hand. It wasn't frightening―rather, somehow calming. "It can't be that bad, can it?" he said, shooting Yrael a tight-lipped smile even though he knew it wouldn't make it past the pitchy darkness between them.

Suddenly, the air burst into a brilliant glow, lighting them from the space above. Yrael was illuminated starkly, the light accentuating the perfect angles of his face, though in harsh distinctness. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw was set, and he breathed slowly and steadily. "Would you have chosen this?" he asked simply, but Cormac found he couldn't answer.

Yrael closed his eyes, and they moved behind his eyelids in a frenzy. "They chose this for you in your stead. They don't care about you, Cormac. They've never cared about anything good on this earth. They think only of keeping their stupid _order_, maintaining their filthy _Charter_."

"Yrael!" Cormac protested, raising an arm as if to protect himself from Yrael's words. "You and I know more than anyone of what exists outside of the Charter. Good on them for keeping the Charter―Free Magic is dangerous!"

Yrael's face twisted horribly. All the features remained the same, but he looked terrifying; his expression was not Yrael at all. "Am I dangerous, _Mac_?" he asked poisonously.

Cormac started, thrusting Yrael back before he could even properly think. In the back of his mind, he supposed there was always an inkling of knowing. It made sense, he realized, more sense than anything else Cormac knew. Yrael never seemed to use Charter marks, never seemed to fully understand the thoroughly human conventions that Cormac else operated under, always seemed to stand apart from everyone else. But Yrael wasn't evil. Cormac _knew_ evil like he knew his own heart. Evil was the shapeless beast in the wood, evil was the stench of human blood in a Crata's lair, evil was every Free Magic beast, both bound and unbound, that Cormac had ever seen. Yrael wasn't evil. And yet―

"I _am_ Free Magic, Mac, more than those stupid things we killed could ever hope to be." Yrael hadn't moved from where Cormac had pushed, but even in his supine position he still looked threatening. He snapped his fingers, and snakes fell out of the darkness into a writhing tangle by Cormac's feet. He exhaled, and his breath turned into a delicate contortion of ice, which shattered as it fell across his body. He blinked, and the walls turned harsh red. He―

"Enough!" cried Cormac. "You're Free Magic then, I get it." He sank back down hopelessly. "I get it."

Now, Yrael looked distraught, entirely himself again. "I'm still me," he said, and for the first time Cormac saw the man actually _scramble_ as Yrael attempted to pick himself up. "I'm still Yrael."

And what was that supposed to mean? Cormac wondered. There were times when he had to ask himself whether Yrael ever cared at all. All the times he had ever mentioned being "bound," or something along those lines―until now they had struck Cormac as an anomaly, an insignificant quirk to an otherwise strong friendship. Now? Perhaps their friendship was the anomaly. It would certainly explain why Yrael, apparently a being of Free Magic, hadn't killed Cormac yet. It would explain the attitude, the mannerisms, the current of rage that ran through the man, the _thing, _like a howling torrent of flames. The largest bell seemed to stare at him, and he swallowed, shifting his hand around it. Finally, Yrael began breathing again, and Cormac looked up at him sullenly, mouth parted in a half-hearted attempt to sneer. "Yrael. My reluctant servant."

Yrael didn't respond, but stayed in a somber silence.

Cormac mulled his friend's quiet. As if to answer his insecurities, the dead pooled at the bottom of the stair let out a wail. Cormac remembered what was happening, and gave his head a brief shake. "You asked me if I would have chosen this. At the moment, I can't really say." Cormac took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes, and wondered if, years from now, he would hate himself for what he was about to say. "I do know that we don't have much of a choice right now. You seem to know a bit about the bells, and they obviously have something to do with the dead here. Do you know what I need to do?"

Yrael's jaw clenched again, but he complied. "This is more your mother's specialty," he said cryptically, "but I think I'm enough like her to do the same. I'm sure she won't mind." The dead wailed again, and their barricade at the far side of the room rattled in response. Yrael glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "In an ideal situation, you'll learn how to do this yourself. But now is hardly the time." He raised his hand in front of Cormac's face, fingers hyperextended and palm stretched before Cormac's eyes.

"What―" Cormac began, but before he could finish his question, Yrael snapped his fingers, and the world went dark.

***

On the second floor of the Tower Dala, Yrael watched Cormac die. It was an abrupt, painless death, the kind one could only hope for. An expression of shock still sprawled across the young man's face, but his skin was rapidly cooling. Indeed, his extremities―the tip of his long nose, his fingers, the ends of his boots―were beginning to harden over with ice.

"Good luck," Yrael said gruffly.

***

When Cormac's eyes finally began to work again, he saw that he was standing in a river. It wasn't a very deep river, reaching only to his calves. Oddly enough, his feet felt dry. He blinked and staggered backward, suddenly hit by a wave of homesickness. He felt awfully close to _something_ now. The swirling eddy of the water burbled at him, for some reason recalling memories of his mother singing lullabies to him, of all things. Cormac shook his head, shrugging the feeling off vigorously, and started down the river.

There was only the river, he soon came to realize. It yawned across the horizon to the left and right of him. Behind him, the tower had disappeared, replaced with only a gray horizon, and, no surprise, more river. This should have disturbed Cormac, but it didn't. He felt oddly used to this place, as though he had been here before. Perhaps in a dream? Perhaps he and mother had passed through here in their travels. That was probably it―it would explain why everything felt stamped with her presence. The river, the gray sky, the gentle and meandering current. All her. A smile broke out onto Cormac's face as he realized he would not mind at all if he had to stay here forever. How nice of Yrael to send him here.

Yrael. The thought made him jump, and the ensuing splash sent ripples radiating out from him. Yrael sent him here. Yrael was back in the tower. This had to do with the bells, with the dead. Cormac fumbled with the bandolier, now recognizing that the river made him feel dangerously complacent. He whistled robustly, trying to keep his head clear. The bells, the bells, the bells. Seven of them, but which one to choose? Was he even supposed to use one now? Had Yrael done something wrong? Cormac, in his fretting, was unaware that the ripples had alerted other beings to his presence. He was so absorbed that he did not notice the inky black figure swim up the river toward him, and failed to see the blotchy hand rear out of the river and sink itself into his leg.

Cormac cried out in pain as another hand leapt out of the water. The figure clawed itself up out of the river, one hand going over the other in and out of Cormac's body. Cormac could only stare in horror as the thing finally emerged, a wraithlike shadow with glowing carbuncles for eyes. A ghastly white mouth opened where its head was, and the thing smiled at him.

"Hello, friend," it said, patting Cormac's cheek companionably. "I didn't expect to see you here, but I must say, it's a pleasant surprise."

Cormac didn't reply to the thing; his only response was to draw his hunting knife out (his hammer was back in Dala, and there were no stones in the river to use his sling). He brandished the weapon in front of him like one would brandish fire before a wolf. The shadow just laughed, and took a step toward Cormac.

"That won't work, friend. You see, I'm already dead. You are too, if you're here."

"Yrael…killed me?" asked Cormac haplessly, dropping the hunting knife before he could stop himself. It slid away under the current, but he didn't notice, as he was too preoccupied with how it felt as though his stomach had dropped out from underneath him.

"I suppose he has," the shadow answered pleasantly. "That's too bad. Why don't you come back to the Tower with me? I can help you," the thing paused seductively, taking another step toward Cormac, who had dropped his defense, "set things right."

"Back to the tower?" repeated Cormac blankly.

The shadow tilted its head, carbuncle eyes glowing malevolently up at Cormac. "Yes. You see, I'm not really here, not with you. When I died, I found myself here." The thing gestured at the river and horizon in distaste. "But I found a way back to the real world, and that's where I _really_ am."

Cormac narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "So, if you're not really here, what are you right now? Here, I mean."

The carbuncles crinkled up at the corner, but Cormac couldn't read the expression. "Just what you see. A shadow."

"And what is your business at Dala?"

The shadow sighed, as though it were bored. "The way out that I found, it lead me to Dala. The river and the real world, I suppose they touched at Dala. Many of my friends say they were killed in the tower, something about a torture chamber? That's probably why. But don't worry, friend. We won't stay at Dala for long. We'll save up our strength, and then we can move on. Come with us!" The thing reached up with an inky tendril and touched Cormac affectionately on the shoulder. "Friend, life is even more _delicious_ when you've passed on. The stupid, fat workers at Dala! The finest meat I've ever tasted, better even than the youngest and most tender of spring lambs!" A bloody swath swirled around its white mouth, and Cormac realized the thing was licking its lips.

He struggled not to retch. "Why should I come with you?" he asked finally, trying his hardest not to betray the disgust and anger that was coiling in his stomach.

The white mouth opened again and flicked him with its red tongue, leaving trails of blood on his face. "Don't you want to get revenge on this Yrael fellow? It's why we've all gone back. There's nothing here but this stupid river anyway. And beyond that, more water. Nothing to see, friend, nothing to see."

Cormac ran a large calloused hand through his hair, adopting a faraway look. He looked the picture of considering, but, like he had been with Uric, was only humoring the thing. Though the stakes were higher now, and he was acutely aware of how intently the thing was staring at him "All right," he sighed, feigning disinterested acceptance. "Show me this way out."

The carbuncle eyes crinkled again, and the thing gently steered him up the river. "Do you feel it?" it asked greedily. "Life?"

The river looked normal to Cormac, but he felt the difference all the same. Life, warmth, fire―this too felt like home to him, just as much a part of him as the river. The shadow disappeared, beckoning with its tendril, and Cormac followed the warm thread. He thrust his chest out, letting life engulf him, and for the second time the world went dark.

***

Ice burst, impossibly loud in the lifeless silence of Tower Dala, and Yrael's focus snapped to Cormac. The young man, who had previously been slumped against the world all but dead to the world, sputtered to life, shaking ice off his body like rainwater.

"Welcome back to the world," Yrael said, appraising him cautiously. Later, Cormac would look at himself in a reflecting pool, and see what his travels to the river brought to him. He would see his skin, several shades paler from its normal ruddy tan, see the delicate network of spider-web scars across his face where the thing touched him, see the chalk-white discolorations where the thing clawed him. At night, he would even dream of carbuncle eyes, and still not understand what burned behind their depths. But now, only Yrael was witness to the changes, and he held his tongue.

"How long was I out?" breathed Cormac, clapping one hand to his head in heady amazement. Sensations seemed to throw themselves at him. Even Dala in its current state was overwhelming to him. Everything was too loud, too bright, too pungent, _too much_.

"A few minutes," Yrael lied. In truth, Cormac had been dead half a day. Yrael had been afraid he had killed the younger man, and had been in the middle of preparing a hasty cremation when Cormac came back to life. He shifted, and extinguished the small flame in his palm while his hand was hidden behind his back. "Did you learn anything useful?"

Cormac coughed, inexplicably coming up with river water. "Well," he began, his throat burning, "they _are_ dead."

Yrael snorted, hitting Cormac on the back to help him get the water out, though he did so with unnecessary force. "I think we've got that down."

"Excuse me if I didn't take notes."

Yrael relented, and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'm sorry." He flourished his hand with mocking grace. "Continue."

Cormac blinked absently, collecting his thoughts. Even after his impromptu mental organization, they still refused to make sense. "It's a river," he said slowly.

"What's a river?"

He looked up at Yrael, chewing his lip worriedly. "Wherever you sent me. That thing kept saying this was life―I suppose that place was death then… But I'm not dead..." Cormac curled up, pulling his knees in toward his chest and angling his head sharply down. "How is this even possible?"

The two sat in the silence. Cormac felt liquid leave his eyes, unbidden. They weren't tears; at least, he didn't feel his body crying. They simply left him, rolled out of him in twos and threes. As they traveled down his face, some caught into the crevice of his mouth. He didn't tasted the salt of normal tears;. He tasted nothing natural at all. Instead, the droplets were oddly sweet, oddly bitter, the gentlest of poisons. River water---more of that infernal river water.

He felt Yrael shift beside him. The other man opened his mouth to speak again, but the resulting sound came out less like words and more like the dolent purring of some terrible beast. "I ask again: is this something you would have chosen?"

Cormac reflected. The river had felt too much like home for him to ever be entirely comfortable. It had spoke to him on the most elemental of levels, and now that he had stood in its waters, he didn't think he would ever be able to ignore its siren call. In that sense, no. He never would have chosen the bells, the dead. The river sang to him, even now in the dank quiet, and he realized with startling clarity that one day, it would drive him mad. His face fell into a defeated expression; dark brows furrowed, wide and thin mouth set itself in a resolute sadness. He felt damned, utterly, completely, irrevocably damned.

It was then that the pricking started. A hint of pain in his chest, the back of his head, the hollows of his bones. He was Cormac. He didn't feel damned; it simply wasn't done. He had walked across the kingdom of the Sleeping Queen as a mere child; he had stood atop the highest mountain and shouted into the icy abyss; he spent his life among sparks and embers and pillars of flame and never let himself get burned. He took his lot and bore it well. His mother hadn't raised him to stumble beneath the yoke, and he liked to think that his father, whoever he was, had always chosen to rise to the challenge instead of being crushed beneath it. And hadn't he felt anger at the river-shadow's proposal? He killed Free Magic creatures, yes, but how was a monster of the dead so different? The thing _ate_ people, for Charter's sake. The pricking burst into flame, and whatever river water remained in him trickled out of him as white smoke.

"Yes," he said, raising himself up off the ground. "I would have chosen this."

Yrael remained on the ground, looking up at Cormac with equal parts awe and bewilderment.

"I choose it now."

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note**: Part two! I imagine the first Abhorsen's first foray into Death would have been quiet an experience, especially if they had no one to tell them what to do. Later Abhorsens, having been taught the arts, were probably better-adjusted to their duties (Terciel and Sabriel are prime examples), but it makes sense that for the first person, for the explorer/frontiersman, it would have been extremely traumatizing. But Cormac is still a doof. A giant, doofy little doof.

Also, Yrael hasn't been exactly _bound_ yet, at least not how we know him to be bound in the book. More on that next chapter! But basically, Yrael/Mogget was one of my favorites from the book, and it always bothered me that he was forced into a bajillion years of servitude... Er, but I come dangerously close to spoiling the next chapter and "Children!" Look, a distraction! -runs away-

Until next time!  
Sam ;3


	3. Part 3: Diatribe

**Disclaimer**: The Old Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix, barring the character of Cormac.

* * *

"Are you sure this will work?" whispered Yrael. He stood before the barricade at the door, his body hunched in preparation. "And I don't mean half-sure, Mac. I mean, positively, absolutely _certain_? If this doesn't work, you'll die. And I promise you, it won't be easy to come back this time."

Cormac stood at the opposite end of the room by the stairwell. He wasn't sure of anything about this plan, only that it had to work. There was no room for error, even if he was going solely on his own instinct and whim. In one hand he held the smallest bell by the clapper. He hadn't known why he had chosen it―he had told Yrael it was chosen because of its size. Smaller meant easier to maneuver. But when he had reached for the largest bell, which he had wanted to use, it seemed to repel his hand. The force hadn't been malicious; Cormac was struck with the thought that the bell didn't think he was ready yet. Which was a stupid, crazy thought, but good enough for him. In his other hand he held his hunting knife. He had thought he'd lost it in the river, but when he awoke from death (such a strange combination of words, a combination Cormac still wasn't used to) he had found it in his hand. It had changed: he knew this because he had been the one to make it in the first place. The metal caught lights that weren't there, and the blade felt inexplicably lighter and heavier at the same time, depending on how he angled it. "It'll work, Yrael," he muttered. "Do it now."

Yrael snorted, but touched his hand to the barricade nonetheless. He gave it a slight shove, and the barricade, as well as the door, were thrown backward. As dust spun through the room, Cormac pushed his knife through the ice over the stair, fragmenting the faint trace of the Charter pattern he had drawn. The ice dissipated in a hiss, and steam was added to the hordes of dust that swirled around the room. The dead raised another terrible yell, and Cormac heard them scramble up the stairs, just as he saw their fellows push through the open doorway. They rushed all at once, getting themselves stuck, and in that precious time Yrael and Cormac retreated to the window, their backs pressed against the open expanse.

A horrible squelching sound came from the doorway, and Cormac realized a few of the unfortunate dead had lost their limbs in the process to get through. They dragged themselves forward by their rotting teeth just as the first of the dead struggled onto the landing. They moaned, spraying Cormac and Yrael with bits of rotting throat, but the two men did not flinch.

"Any time would be lovely," Yrael said through gritted teeth, his eyes wild and knuckles white as his hands strained in his sparring stance.

Like in a dream, Cormac switched his hold on the smallest bell, flipping it and catching it by its handle. It rang as it completed its arc through the air, sending out bright peals reminiscent of a woman singing. The dead trembled, convulsed even. At first Cormac grew fearful―perhaps this was the wrong bell to use?

Then he felt it.

A wave of tiredness rolled over him, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. The dead were even less successful than him, falling over each other in slumbering clumps. Cormac turned to Yrael, expecting to see him just as tired, but the other man looked as though he had been struck by lightning.

He didn't feel that this was the proper to time to ask, though. Cormac put the bell back into its pouch, taking his time. It seemed he had worried over nothing. His gait was ambling as he made his way over to the dead, methodically running them through with the hunting knife. Each plunge seemed to end their slumber, and when he was through with them they did not awake.

"That was easy," he shrugged, shooting Yrael a baffled pout. "I'd rather do this than hunt Free Magic creatures." He twirled his knife, letting it spin in the air before sheathing it. "And I did it all by myself! You can't complain that you do all the dirty work _now_."

Yrael licked his lips in anticipation of something, his eyes narrow slits that searched the darkness beyond Cormac. "Shut up, Mac," he said.

Cormac laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry? Did I offend you? Do you feel threatened now that I can take care of myself?"

Yrael looked at him harshly and snarled, "I mean _shut up_, Mac! I'm trying to listen―"

Whatever Yrael was about to say next was lost in a deafening roar, an awesome noise that shook the tower to its very foundations. Chunks of the ceiling plummeted from their precarious roosts, a rafter beam catching Yrael on the back of the head and pinning him to the ground in a bloody mess.

Cormac had no time to react to that, though. In the noise and turmoil, a new wave of dead burst in from the doorway. These ones seemed stronger, faster, and Cormac recognized the hatchet-face of Mogget and the haughty aristocracy of the captain among the rotting and dynamic bodies. They swarmed at him, arms grabbing and pulling at whatever they could manage. In return, Cormac slashed blindly. He felt the knife cut through flesh and bone, viscera and vessels. He choked, gagged in the smell, but found he couldn't have stopped hacking even if he wanted to. His body was moving on its own accord, and he didn't try to stop it. The dead pressed for his soft eyes, his tender tongue, his supple chest, their mouths watering in anticipation for the feast. Cormac refused to scream, and instead carved all the harder.

And then he saw it. Carbuncle eyes set in a liquid frame, but a frame that was the dark mirror of his own. It was tall like Cormac, but was graceful, having none of his lumbering movements. He saw his own nose, his own long face, his wide mouth, but the features were made arrogant in a raised-chin expression that just made him angrier.

"Hello friend," it smiled, his own voice tearing at his ears. "It looks like you found an even better way out than I did! Why, you look positively," it paused stretching its neck forward to an impossible length, "_alive_."

Cormac ignored it as contorted his body even further, sweeping across the room in a dizzying, billowing circle. Instead, he gritted his teeth and focused on the rise and fall of his arm, each unnatural glint of the knife through congealed and knotted blood.

"Friend! Why do you fight?" The thing alighted in front of him, burning the unfortunate dead it landed on to cinders. "We could be useful to each other," it smiled, tilting its head farther and farther until it made a complete circle, the revolution accompanied by a cacophony of sickening pops of bone and muscle. "Put down your weapon, _friend_."

It reached out to Cormac, and finally he let loose with an animal bellow. He swung the knife in a wide arc, and it hissed as it passed through the thing. He swung, again and again, and for a moment it looked as though the creature was overwhelmed by his ready and answering rage. But the knife didn't seem to hurt it. The shadow creature began to dodge Cormac's feckless swings, smiling at him with his own face, trying to embrace him with his own body. "Friend, friend," it repeated, enraging Cormac past the point of reason. He charged at it, and it gripped him tight. The young man screamed as it tightened its hold on him, his skin cracking and blistering where the shadow substance touched it. "There, there," it comforted. "I'll make sure you're dead this time."

And then he was released. Cormac groped about him but felt none of the river, only stick black blood. Behind him, he felt a searing heat, but it was different from the shadow's burning. This heat felt clean, pure, and strengthened him with its pain. He looked up, delirious and expecting to see his mother of all people. Instead, he saw the shadow's carbuncle eyes wide in fear. Reflected in those glowing bloodstones was a column of white.

"Yrael?" called Cormac shakily, looking over his shoulder for his friend. The rafter was still there, as well as a puddle of blood, but Yrael's body was missing. Instead, the fiery light stirred to his side, and Cormac saw it was not a column, but rather a blindingly tall figure. It passed its hand over him, and he felt the appalling burns on his body close up and heal.

The shadow thing hissed, and made for the window behind him. But the light stretched its arms, barring the shadow and trapping it against the ceiling. The shadow writhed, but the light was implacable.

Yrael's voice boomed out of the bright nothing. "You said you chose this, Cormac."

Cormac dropped his knife, trying to find Yrael amidst the harsh disparity of brilliance and shadow. "Yrael!" he cried again, his hands cupped fruitlessly around his mouth. "Yrael!"

Without relinquishing its hold on the shadow creature, the shining presence seemed to turn toward Cormac. "I am here," it answered simply, softly, though the sound still filled his ears.

"Yrael?" Cormac asked, but he already knew.

The shine shrunk, if only marginally. Its shape spiraled and then straightened; it looked more like Yrael now, the same eyes, short straw-colored hair, but it was larger, grander, and blinked at Cormac solemnly. "Here," it said faintly, and gave him the ghost of a smile.

"Yrael, what happened to you?" For some reason, this defeated him more than anything else, this absolute verification that Yrael was not human, not at all.

"This is how I'm supposed to be, Mac," it replied, and Cormac could catch a bit of Yrael's old humor in its voice.

Cormac didn't answer, but his face fell.

"You said you chose this," Yrael continued, turning back to the shadow. "Well, I choose this, too."

The shadow squirmed, spitting blood and inky poison at them, but Yrael held fast.

"Draw your bell," Yrael instructed, his attention cemented to the shadow thing. Cormac complied, his hand pulling the second largest bell out of its pouch. Yrael, without even looking, laughed. "Saraneth. I should have known this was your doing."

"Yrael―" Cormac began, but the shining presence glowed brighter, silencing him in awe.

"If I'm not mistaken, Cormac, you've chosen The Binder. I know him well. When you ring that bell, both I and this creature will be bound to your will." The shine flickered and grew fainter.

Cormac swallowed hard, looking from the bell to Yrael and back. "Is that it, then? You choose to be my servant? I don't bind my friends to my will, or whatever you mean. Is that it, Yrael? Servant, not friend?" He knew he had asked this question before, but he felt now was the moment of truth. Yrael, in his false form hadn't answered, but now reduced to nothing but light how could he not? It was now or never, and Cormac had the oddest of senses that he would never be able to ask Yrael this again. At least, never be able to ask him and get a straight answer. He choked in laughter at the thought, and was surprised to realize, for the damndest of reasons, he was crying. He might be able to look back at this moment later and make sense of it all, but he felt like he was losing something, someone, and indeed he was. Yrael as he knew him was gone, to be replaced by this great and terrible being who would only be with him, Cormac, because _he had to_. I chose this, Cormac thought, and this time his tears tasted salty and wholly, regrettably real.

The light that was Yrael shuddered. "No. Your friend, Mac. Always your friend."

The shadow creature howled in one final rally. "I did not crawl through river to be stopped here! I, who ascended the waterfalls and braved the mighty waves, I, who died unjustly in life, I, who kept my wits and will about me in death to _make them pay_! I will not be stopped here!" Its form boiled savagely and it opened its mouth to shriek again, but at that moment Cormac began to ring the bell. Low sounds filled the tower, low sounds that bounced off the walls and overpowered the beat of Cormac's own heart in their strength. Low sounds that drowned out the creature's shrieking and made Yrael double over as if in pain―these were the gifts of the sixth bell, and Cormac stood in the middle of it all. A wind blew in from the window, thrashing his hair and tattered clothing about his form, but still he stood, an impassive observer.

"Your name, creature," Cormac commanded with uncharacteristic sternness in his voice.

"Marchus!" it shrieked, as its name was ripped from its throat. It trembled violently, floating free in the air and bound to the steel that was Cormac's will. "What would you have of me, master?" it pleaded. "Friend! Friend! Master!" it sobbed, carbuncle eyes dripping hot, bloody tears.

"I would have you die, Marchus."

The creature screeched, and burst into flames.

***

"It's over, Yrael." Cormac's voice was once again kind, and he stooped low over Yrael's bent figure. Yrael was solid again, thoroughly himself with his roguish cleft chin and obstinate jaw. But, at the same time, he wasn't Yrael. He allowed Cormac to help him up, whereas the Yrael from before would have disdained at any such offering. He didn't so much as look at the ashen pile that was the remnants of the shadow creature, whereas the Yrael from before would have spat on it.

Instead: "Is it?" Yrael asked wearily, rubbing his head.

Cormac looked at him carefully. "This part, at least."

Yrael chuckled, and seemed to come to himself, if only a little. He pulled at his little finger, struggling with it momentarily, pulling something off of it. When he brought the thing up to the light, Cormac saw it was the man's little ring. It was small, something that a child would have worn, and he suddenly remembered that he had wanted to ask Yrael why he bothered to keep such a trinket. He had _wanted_ to ask Yrael, but had never gotten around to it. The unknown reason seemed insignificant now, and he accepted it when Yrael placed it in his hand.

"Aw, don't tell me you're proposing," he joked, but when he looked up again he saw Yrael was being serious.

"Think of it more as binding," he said firmly, and Cormac flushed angrily.

"You said we were friends, Yrael, not a master and his servant. _Friends_."

Yrael nodded fervently. "We are, Cormac, and I'll follow you anywhere. But there will be a time when I will no longer be able to see your mother, you, your children in the faces of your descendants. I won't be able to see the faces of your grandchildren or even your grandchildren's grandchildren. I will look at them and see the faces of strangers. But I will still be bound to them." He pointed to the sixth bell that hung by Cormac's chest. "This ring will remind me of the faces I need to see."

Cormac turned the ring over in his palm for the longest of times. Finally, he sighed and smiled. "It's an awfully small ring," he shrugged.

Yrael smacked him on the back of his head. "You're a blacksmith. You fix it."

"Eventually. But right now, I could really use a drink. I don't mean to sound heartless, but too bad there's no one left to pay us, eh?"

The two of them picked their way to the staircase, careful to avoid the remnants of ice that still clung there. "Well, at least everything is settled here," Yrael replied. "A new crew can come in and finally install that damn winding post everyone was so excited about."

Cormac waggled his eyebrows. "You want to get the project done? It looks Mogget didn't die after all." He received another smack to the back of the head.

"I told you not to call me that."

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note**: Yay! Continuing what I was saying in the previous chapter, it bothered by that Yrael/Mogget got the short end of the stick. They were relegated to a gazillion years of servitutde, and all they got was this lousy t-shirt. OK, not really. But I wanted his servanthood to hold meaning. I wanted it to be something that he chose, or at least would have chosen. Here, the actual binding is done by the Abhorsen Cormac, but you might have noticed Yrael being at least verbally bound to Cormac, Cormac's mother, and Cormac's children. More about that in "Children."

This was fun to write guys! I hope it was as much fun to read! If you read it, please review it! I love constructive criticism---it is my meat and potatoes.

Until next time!  
Sam ;3

PS: Yes, Yrael gets the name Mogget from a cranky construction foreman. I thought it was funny at least. x3


End file.
